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Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Midnight Ballet [Short Fiction]

The room was elegant. It displayed
a profound association with artistic taste. The antique furniture, huge
photographs of a ballet dancer framed in creative wooden bends, the shade of
mystic orange adorning the walls and the royal cutlery charmingly peeking from
cupboards of various sizes were the proof. The fragile old woman who catches
wisps of sleep on a metallic chair looks out of place -a misfit in her own
house, a jarring present of a glorious past.

It is only when the tuned television
blares into a merry ballet song that she opens her eyes, puckering her lips
into a smile. Though her old self is a stark contrast to the woman in the
photographs there is no doubt about the dancer she had been when her face beams
as she rubs her eyes to catch the ballet on the television. She lifts her delicate
arms and swings them to the music with perfection like they were given to her
just to be able to do that. A melodious hum matches her little dance and she
swivels her wheel chair in sync with the rhythm. A joy fills her heart, elates her feet gives
them the life they do not have. The
sorrows of an unfortunate event that cut short her majestic career suddenly and
a lonely life that followed her into the old age are too insignificant, too
unworthy of this one hour of her day. Her eyes remain closed but she sees a
stage.

This is that one hour that she
dances her way into the past, not with her body but her soul. It is divine to
feel no limitation, no boundary to the joy. To feel detached from the existence
of an earthly being and rising to be a dancer who paints emotions with the
twists and twirls, rhythm and beats. The remaining hours of the day were like
that waiting before an on stage performance. Her heart looking forward for the
clock to strike eleven, her ears anticipating the music they would play today
and the audience were her belongings in the house which gathered dust only to
be shaken to the vibrations of a song.
It was all she lived for- that performance in her own midnight ballet.

It was not a match to the
performances she had given in the past but the world it transported her into-
that was the best appreciation she had ever received. Someday she would
silently close her eyes never to open them again. To get transported into that
world of ballet forever and make a grand entrance to - another stage?

I like your words Sam. I like the way they narrate a story. You have simple words weaved into a beautiful meaning. Your blog and your work inspire me. I like the way you segregate fiction, poems, and general work. I tried that too. but sigh ! I can't write poems at all :P

I'm jealous that you can write all of it and that too with such grace ;)

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